I Belong to that Band
by Mad Server
Summary: After 7.02, Dean's sad and sick and too congested to sleep.  Sam plays connect the dots with his freckles.  Slash.


TITLE: I Belong to that Band  
>AUTHOR: mad_server<br>CHARACTERS: Sam, Dean  
>PAIRING: SamDean  
>RATING: I guess R for some swearing<br>SPOILERS: 7.02  
>WORDS: 600<br>A/N: Dorkiness warning, shmooooop warning. For a prompt of dollarformyname's at the sneezy meme.  
>SUMMARY: Sad congested Dean can't sleep. Sam plays connect-the-dots with his freckles.<p>

* * *

><p>Dean's eyes have been watering since counties ago, but now that he's flat on his back with Sam's palm brushing up and down his arm, it seems important.<p>

"Fuck off," he says, long highway stripes spooling across the space behind his eyelids. He tries to sniff back a drip from his nose but there's no space for air to pass through.

Sam swipes at wetness on his lip, then thumbs away more from under his eyes. Sam's callouses are tough and polished and Dean remembers how soft his hands had got, at Stanford. He takes a heavy breath through his mouth and blows it out hot over his lips and thinks about how Sam came back, how sometimes people who are gone come back.

Sam's fingertips stick around, poking at his face, disappearing and nudging him again, gently as a kitten's paw.

"Cadd I help you?"

Sam traces a line slowly across his cheek. "There's a triangle on your face." The line turns a sharp corner. "Right... there." It changes direction again and ends at the point where it began. Sam leans closer and presses cool lips to Dean's skin.

Dean shifts against the mattress, swallows against the ache in his leg. "I could get you a colorigg book..."

The dips under his eyes have collected more water and Sam sweeps it away with his giant hand. "The triangle's lonely." Sam combs his fingers through Dean's hair, knuckles meeting the headboard with a soft knocking sound. "It wants to be in a band, but it doesn't know any other instruments."

Dean scratches his thigh around the rim of the cast, tries to clear his throat.

The pad of Sam's pointer grazes over Dean's forehead, tracing a circle. "Wait a minute. Who's this?" A stick juts out from the top, all the way into Dean's hairline. "It's Mr. Pumpkin."

"God help bee."

Sam lowers his voice. "Don't listen, guys. He's having a crappy day." He rubs broad strokes across Dean's chest. "Mr. Pumpkin wants to know why Mr. Triangle's so sad."

Dean heaves a wheezy sigh. "Thwarted busical gediuss."

"Exactly. But guess what. Mr. Pumpkin's a pretty awesome dancer, and when he gets going, the seeds in his belly click together and make music. He's actually primo band material."

"Have you ever shakedd a pubkidd? That's dot what happeds."

"Hey, quiet, cranky." Sam's hand is at Dean's chin now, cupping it, angling him this way and that. "Ooh," Sam breathes, a fingertip touching down. "Who's this?" Dean tracks the pattern in his mind. Sam sounds like he's smiling. "It's Mr. Duck, Dean."

"Quack quack, Mr. Duck."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Duck," Sam pacifies, longsuffering. "He's not trying to be racist. He just doesn't know any better."

Dean scowls. "What, ducks dod't quack eddybore?"

"Mr. Duck doesn't. He's an opera singer."

"Great. So he's gudda be idd the bah... the bahhh... ah-_GHTSHSH!"_

"Wow! Bless you." Soft paper dabs under Dean's eyes, cups around his nose in invitation. He snuffles and blows. "Hey, that sounds better."

Dean sniffs in a breath and cracks his eyes, blinks up at the shadowy ceiling. "I'll be damned. Guess those pills are good for something after all."

"See? Medicine is your friend." Sam smoothes the blankets around his shoulders plants a soft kiss between his brows. "Sleep, man. I'll be right here."

Dean yawns and thinks of marching bands. His face slowly dries in the warm motel air, distantly itchy like the feathers in a duck's wing, or an angel's.

* * *

><p>Prompt: <em>Dean is exhausted but too congested to sleep, and also really, really pale. His freckles are hot, though. [Person of your choice] plays connect the dots across his skin—which he won't admit is kind of relaxing—and tells him stories to go with the pictures, until the cold medicine kicks in enough to help him breathe. Any genrepairing._


End file.
